The bellman produced a copy of the newspaper. There, column right, was what was obviously a telephoto shot of him arriving back at the lodge from the prison the previous day. The heading read: THE LAST HANGMAN. The byline read: Bradford Jamison.
Bradford, Martin thought. Brad. The man who had spoken to Barbara in the dining room the previous night. Advertising salesman for a travel magazine? The son of a bitch was a reporter.
Opening the envelope just handed to him, he found a note from Barbara:
Marty, you should have told me what was really going on, instead of deceiving me about everything. I’m sorry but I could never love anyone with blood on his hands like you have. I have gone away with Brad. He is going to arrange for me to be interviewed on television about my relationship with you. He says I might be discovered and become a star. Sorry it didn’t work out. Love, B.
“Telephone call for you, sir,” the bellman came back to tell him. “You can take it on the house phone over there.”
Martin answered the house phone and immediately heard the angry voice of Issac Stockman. “Well, Sloan, you really screwed up this time, didn’t you! Your picture’s all over the papers and on television down here! I’ve got reporters crawling in and out of the place like ants! You’ve made my company the laughing stock of the cordage industry! Don’t bother coming back to clean out your desk, because I’m having everything in your office taken down to the furnace room and burned, and then I’m going to fumigate the place. You’ll never work in cordage again, Sloan!”
There was a loud click as the phone at the other end was slammed down, leaving Martin holding a disconnected receiver in his hand. My God, he thought. My job. My future. When he finally marshaled enough presence of mind to hang up the house phone and turned away, it immediately rang again and the bellman shouted across the lobby, “Another call for you, sir.”
Martin turned and stared at the ringing house phone again. Another call? Who from? he wondered. Lucifer, welcoming him to hell? He picked up the receiver very gingerly, as if it might be hot.
“Hello?” he said tentatively.
“You dirty two-timing son of a bitch!” Vivian’s voice screeched at him over the line. “I tried calling you on your cell phone this morning to wish you a safe drive home but I couldn’t get through. So I called the prison, where you were supposed to be staying. They told me you were staying at this hotel. So I called there a little while ago and, guess what, I was told that Mrs. Sloan had already checked out, but that you were still there. I’ve been calling the hotel every fifteen minutes and, lucky me, I’ve finally reached you. Who the hell did you take up there with you, you low-life bastard? Some little whore of a secretary, or some little whore of a waitress? I’m calling Hazel right now and blowing the whistle on you, Marty! I pity you when you get home!”
Again the phone at the other end was slammed down. Martin shuffled over to a chair in the corner of the lobby and slumped down, chin on chest, like a man who had just got bad news on his cancer test. His mouth was a grim, lipless line. There was no expression in his eyes, as if he were staring at a blank wall. What, he wondered, was the most painless way to commit suicide?
Presently, Martin became aware of two men standing in front of him. They were the dark-skinned men in the expensive-looking suits and ties who had sat on the far side of the gallows and observed the execution. Martin looked up at them, anxiously. Were they there to accompany him to hell?
“Excuse us, Mr. Sloan,” one of them said with extreme politeness. “May we speak with you, sir?”
“W... what — about?” Martin asked with sudden trepidation.
“With your permission, may we introduce ourselves, sir? I am Shammar Tabuk, and this is my associate, Hufur Jabal. We are representatives of Prime Minister Al Hila Kut, of the Republic of Abadal.”
“W... what — do you want with me?”
“May we sit, sir? Thank you.” The two men drew two chairs close to Martin.
“We have the honor to present to you a proposal from His Excellency, the Prime Minister.”
Martin frowned suspiciously. “W... what — kind of proposal?”
“His Excellency wishes to appoint you as the official executioner for the Republic of Abadal. We were sent here to observe your performance at this morning’s execution, and it was our pleasure to report to the prime minister by overseas telephone that you carried out your duty with speed, precision, and complete professionalism. Therefore, we are authorized to offer you this important appointment.” “W... where — did you say you were from?” Martin asked.
“The Republic of Abadal. We are a small but prosperous independent country on the Gulf of Oman.”
“And you want me to become the official executioner for your whole country?”
“That is it, sir. You see, His Excellency the Prime Minister has decided that it is no longer acceptable for citizens of our country to be executed by one of their own countrymen. It has been decided that someone from outside our country should be appointed to carry out such punishments, thereby avoiding the stigma of one Abadalian killing another. Do you see the point?”
“Yes. Yes, I do,” Martin said. Feeling his apprehension diminish, he shifted in his chair and sat up straighten He was being asked to become a full-time hangman again. How about that? “Tell me, Mr...ah—”
“Tabuk. Please, call me Shammar.”
“Of course. Shammar. Tell me, Shammar, how many, uh, executions does your country normally carry out in, say, a year’s time?”
Both Shammar and his associate, Hufur Jabal, smiled widely and laughed softly to each other. “Oh, sir, many, many,” said Shammar. “You tell him, Hufur,” he said to the other man.
“Yes. Well, sir,” said Hufur, “the number of executions has been increasing considerably as more and more crimes have been made punishable by death. Those crimes include, as I am sure you might surmise, murder, rape, drug trafficking, espionage, terrorism, homosexuality, pedophilia, sexual misconduct outside the marriage vows, and prostitution. To those have recently been added crimes against chastity, embezzlement of money belonging to our citizenry, and most recently, witchcraft. And, of course, apostasy.”
“What exactly is apostasy?” Martin inquired.
“Abandonment of our religious beliefs, sir.”
Martin cleared his throat. “Well, naturally, I am honored by your prime minister’s generous offer of this appointment, gentlemen, but I must tell you that I do not subscribe to or practice any organized religion, and I don’t think I would fit in with the religious requirements of Abadal—”
“Oh, sir, you would not have to,” Shammar hastened to assure Martin. “You would not even be required to live among us. You would be given your own luxurious apartment in one of our new high-rise buildings overlooking the Gulf, where many expatriates from your country live, along with those from the United Kingdom, France, Italy — many countries. On days when your services were required, an official limousine would take you to your suite of offices at our central prison on the edge of the capital. There you would carry out the scheduled executions, after which you would be returned home. Your freedom and lifestyle would in no way be restricted, I assure you.”
“I see. Well,” Martin rubbed his hands together, “how many executions per year did you say I would be required to carry out?”
“We did not get to a figure, sir,” said Hufur, “but I would guess around a hundred.”
Two a week, Martin thought.
“How, uh — how soon would I have to decide?”
“At once, I’m afraid, sir. His Excellency the Prime Minister is awaiting your reply as we speak.”
“Well, how would I go about getting to Abadal? I have no passport—”